What is this worldStretched before me?Without spectrumWithout substanceContinuously folding into itselfAnd unfurlingLike the quiet rhythmThat draws theCycle of breathThrough my being And I cannot discernWhether I existAt its beginningOr at its end—Perhaps I’ve found myselfPlanted at its centerWhere above meThe space breaks awayIn jagged, feathering veinsPierced through with white light And from that chasmA viscous Continue reading